


ghost of a life (and what comes after)

by rebelliousenjolras



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, BAMF Hermione Granger, F/M, Fred Weasley Dies, Hermione and Fred get a chance... sort of, Kind of Canon Compliant, POV Hermione Granger, Post-Canon, Post-War, all of the angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-08-23 18:36:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20247442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebelliousenjolras/pseuds/rebelliousenjolras
Summary: What would  you do, if you had the chance to see a future you'd never get to live?Fred Weasley dies. Hermione lives. Everything that could have been, is no longer.A story of hope, of healing, and of a love that transcends life itself.





	1. pt. i

**Author's Note:**

> _anywhere i would have followed you. (a great big world + christina aguilera, “say something”)___

She’d never seen so much blood. The screaming itself was loud, chaotic, but it was nothing compared to the rivers of blood snaking its way down the staircases, the splatters caking the walls and floors. Hermione herself was covered in it, and she was almost positive the red stain coating the leg of her jeans didn’t belong to her. She couldn’t--wouldn’t--allow herself to linger on it, because if she did, she would lose the steel grip on her sanity that had kept her alive this past year. 

So, Hermione continued fighting, continued running, and kept her eyes wide and roaming, searching for a shock of ginger hair and deep brown eyes amidst the madness. It was only hours--or maybe it had been minutes, or seconds, or even days--into the battle that she spotted him, dueling a masked Death Eater with Percy at his side. They effectively disarmed and stunned the man, sending him careening backwards until he slumped against the wall and was still. 

“Good of you to show just as the action’s finished up, Harry!” Fred called, flashing his brilliant grin at the trio. How he was able to pull that dazzling smile to his face, at now of all times, Hermione couldn’t fathom. 

“Sorry, mate, though it seems like you’ve got a pretty good handle on it, I’d say.” Harry quipped, though there was no real humor in his voice.

It was then that Fred’s eyes fell on Hermione, and for a moment, all was still. “Hello there, Granger,” and Fred was smiling at her again, and it wasn’t quite as happy, but perhaps a bit wistful. 

Ron muttered something that sounded an awful lot like, “Not like I’m his bloody brother or anything,” but Hermione paid him no mind. She simply nodded, feeling her own lips curve in response to the greeting. 

“Hi, Fred,” her gaze then drifted to the burns lanced across Fred’s arm, disappearing under the sleeve of his coat. “Fred? What--” But what had caused such ugly marks, and whatever witty reply Fred would have most likely responded with, Hermione would never know.

She’d expected her life to end suddenly for quite some time now. Perhaps she’d be on a battlefield, covered in blood and bellowing war cries as her wand slashed through the air. Or maybe it’d be in a moment of silence, under the cover of a disguised calm, and she wouldn’t see it coming. Hermione had never expected, though, for it to end quite like this. The world exploded into a burst of starlight and dust, and down she fell, her wand rolling out of her hand as she failed to keep her grip on her only lifeline in a sea of stone. 

For a single, fleeting moment, Hermione’s life flashed before her eyes, and yet the scenes were as puzzlingly unfamiliar to her as the feeling of soaring on a broomstick above a Quidditch pitch. But… Yes, there she was, wrapped in a silk robe with flowers piled in her hair, and a dainty ring weighing down her left hand; and then she was perhaps just a few years older, two identical babies with shocks of bright red hair on their heads and a smattering of freckles dotting their cheeks balanced on her hips; then there were five children chasing each other around a kitchen with garishly bright yellow cabinets and she was sitting atop a cushioned barstool, laughing at the chaos; older still, her mane of brunette curls fading into silver as she rested her head on the shoulder of a familiar-looking man, and aged as he was, Fred Weasley’s blue eyes still twinkled with mischief that held signs of not having dimmed, and there was something in the way he gazed at this version of herself, with more love and hope than she could even fathom…

As reality set back in with a screeching, earth-shattering suddenness, Hermione found both that the world seemed tilted on its side, the debris she’d mistaken for stars and dust falling still, and that she was somehow still alive, the strange visions that had danced before her eyes merely dreams. She tried to move and bits of stone and Merlin knew what else shifted as she struggled to pull herself to her feet. Hermione paused as she reached her knees, distantly recognizing Harry walking unsteadily towards her, mercifully unharmed by the unexpected blast. Slowly, the sounds of the battle around her returned, and Hermione realized with a pain that settled deep into her bones that everyone had not been as lucky as she and Harry. She first laid eyes on Ron, tears leaving tracks in the dirt on his face, but he wasn’t looking at her. Hermione shifted her gaze, the pain rising to an excruciating crescendo, as the pale, limp form of Fred Weasley took shape in front of her. 

It took her a moment to realize that she was the person screaming. Forgetting Harry, and the battle raging around them, and the blasts of red and green light that bounced off the stone ahead of her, she clambered over piles of debris until she fell to her knees at Fred’s side, hands helplessly flitting about as she wracked her brain for a spell, or a potion--

“We’ve got to move him,” Harry said, catching Hermione’s attention, because after seven years of friendship she’d become so attuned to his and Ron’s voices that she could pick them out from anywhere. “And we have to go. We’ll be doing Fred a disservice if we let ourselves fall apart. C’mon, Ron,” he said, and his tone softened. “Percy. We can put him somewhere safe… Until this is over.”

_ Unless we’re all dead _. Harry’s final, unspoken words hung heavily in the air as Ron clung to Percy. Hermione took Fred’s large hand in her much smaller one, delicately running her fingers over the back of his palm. Selfishly, she wished to tell them all about the shared looks across crowded rooms, the small smiles Fred reserved just for her, the way he held her hand when Voldemort’s first mind-warping command echoed through their heads. There had never been a word for it, that strange, undisturbed piece of life that Fred and Hermione quietly shared. Nothing more than a hug had ever passed between them; they were both clever enough to know that falling in love in the midst of a war was a fool’s game, and so they’d refused to play it. Perhaps, though, Hermione had always thought--hoped--that when--if--they survived this, she would ask him to take a walk with her down by the lake, and Fred would hold her hand, and they would finally breathe life into their plane of existence. She’d even imagined what she’d say to him, rehearsed the speech in her head countless times during the cold nights spent in the tent with Ron and Harry. 

But now, there was no one left to hear her. In that quiet part of the universe where once, she and Fred had existed, Hermione was now completely, utterly alone. 

“Hermione, we can’t stay here.” Harry said, kneeling beside her in the dust as he wrapped an arm around Ron’s heaving shoulders. He gently tugged at her wrist to no avail.

“We can’t-- I don’t know what to do-- I can’t help him,” and somewhere between remembering Fred’s smile and dreaming about the lake Hermione had begun sobbing, Her breath came in short gasps as she realized the awful truth of it all, as her biggest fears came crashing to the ground around her: nothing she could do would remedy this disaster. No amount of brains or books or talent could bring life back to those lovely eyes that she hadn’t had near enough time to explore. Her heart was gone, ripped from her chest and following Fred to wherever he was, in a world where they had been fools together. It seemed impossible, unthinkable, that she had to stand on her own two feet and leave him here. 

But years of her young life being ravaged by death and despair had prepared Hermione for a moment such as this. So, after committing the feeling of Fred’s calloused fingers and the exact number of freckles dotting his face to memory, Hermione rose stiffly to her feet and wiped her face on the bloody hem of her jacket. It seemed that somewhere in the mayhem, she’d suffered a few nasty cuts to her arms and legs, but she couldn’t feel it. A cooling numbness was setting in as her gaze drifted from Ron to Harry, and it was because of those two boys who meant the world that she recalled the mission at hand, the mission that Fred was now lying still and lifeless for.

Visions of red haired babies and yellow kitchen cabinets and a quiet afternoon by the lake floated through Hermione’s mind one by one. A future she hadn’t realized she so desperately wanted clung to every corner and crevice of her head, spilling out like mapwork through her mind. But she didn’t allow it to linger; once this was all over she’d dwell on them, drown in them, but right now? Right now, she had a war to win. 

“I’m sorry.” She whispered, sparing a final glance for The Boy Who Could Have Been. She couldn’t watch them carry him away.

A part of Hermione wished her heart was attached to her body by a string, and she could follow the trail that led her to a world where Fred was smiling and joyous and blissfully, beautifully alive. Instead, the only string she held onto led her deeper and deeper into darkness. And so, Hermione took a deep breath, lifted her wand, and dove into the madness.


	2. pt. ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _rainbows are visions / they’re only illusions. (sleeping at last, “rainbow connection” (cover))___

What does the word “normal” even mean, in a world where everything was the same, yet so different? The Burrow still smelled like bacon and toast in the mornings, and the sun illuminated the exact patch of grass that Crookshanks had spent countless hours lounging in in the weeks before the wedding. But the house itself was quieter, less creaks and shifts, and there was no raucous breakfast table awaiting Hermione when she managed to drag herself down the numerous flights of stairs to the kitchen. Instead, she was met with the sight of Ginny curled in on herself as she nibbled at a piece of toast, and Mrs. Weasley staring blankly out the window into the garden as she scrubbed an already-clean pot. Harry sat dutifully beside Ginny, though his plate of food was untouched, and it appeared that the rest of the family hadn’t found the courage to face the day yet. George, Hermione knew, had yet to make it more than a few hours in the land of the living before retiring back to his dark bedroom. 

Hermione wasn’t fairing much better herself. The night after the battle at Hogwarts, she’d broken down and confessed everything to Ron and Harry: the unspoken truths between her and Fred, her immense guilt at feeling like she had any claim to him, and the numbing realization that for all of her strict plans and ideas, a future she’d once hoped was just out of reach was now completely destroyed. Ron had cried with her, the loss of his brother too fresh for any other type of comfort, and Harry had sat by her side, silent, shouldering her pain as she’d shouldered his on their many adventures together. 

But it didn’t help. In sharing these burdens of hers with Harry and Ron, Hermione only felt more sick, more exhausted. Sleep came to her in restless fits; she’d wake in a cold sweat seeing not just Fred’s face, but Lupin, Tonks, Sirius-- everyone they’d lost flashed through her mind again and again. Some nights she’d wake up screaming to the sound of Ginny’s quiet sobs in the bed just feet away from her own, or Mr. Weasley’s restless pacing in the hall. More than once she’d fled to the stillness of the garden, only to find George laying on his back, staring up at the stars as his lips moved soundlessly. Hermione wondered if perhaps he was speaking to Fred, telling him of the emptiness of a world where he didn’t exist, of how his mother couldn’t quite meet his eyes anymore without seeing all that she’d lost, of Percy, begging and pleading their forgiveness time and time again. 

Selfishly, so selfishly, Hermione wished she could speak to Fred in the same way. But when she tried, throwing open the windows and letting the cool darkness kiss her skin, no words came to her mind. She wrote letters, only to get stuck after the phrase “Dear Fred.” How were you meant to rationalize the obliteration of a life you never lived, to say goodbye to a woman you never had the chance to become? There would always be questions and confusion and this pain and suffering would never cease--

Hermione was awoken from her stupor by the loud grating of a fork scraping against a plate. Ron, it seemed, had joined the somber breakfast. Hermione released her grip on her wand, not realizing she’d even brought it to the table with her. She nibbled on some toast, not quite tasting anything, eyes drifting ever so often to the empty chair beside her. In a different time, they’d all come to claim permanent spots at the breakfast table, and Fred had been to her right, often tipping over the salt so that small grains spilled into her lap, or bumping her shoulder so that her pumpkin juice slopped over the sides. 

Abruptly, Hermione stood, excusing herself upstairs before she had time to further dwell on those breakfasts which had once seemed so insignificant. On her way down the darkened hall, she passed Fred and George’s room, pausing out of habit when she heard the gentle murmur of voices coming from within. She quickly decided it was only George speaking, no one else, but as for what he was saying, she couldn’t be sure. 

Hermione felt the guilt of eavesdropping on George settle into her skin, and so she hurried down the hall, not stopping until she’d firmly latched the door of Ginny’s bedroom behind her. There, she collapsed onto her bed, head pounding from the sheer exhaustion that came with living in a broken world. Hermione slowly let herself drift, falling deeper and deeper into some version of resting, until thoughts of quiet breakfasts and a muttering George were far out of reach. 

“Hello there, Granger,” a quiet voice pulled Hermione from sleep. She blinked blearily in the darkness that had fallen in the bedroom, trying to place that amused voice that had awoken her as she searched beneath her pillow for her wand, war reflexes still in overdrive. 

Her heart dropped when she was finally able to make out the outline of the man standing before her, turning the words over in her mind as she realized when she’d last heard them. Tall, with impossible to miss fiery red hair and a small smile turning up the corners of his mouth… Fred. 

“Fred?” Hermione breathed, echoing her own thoughts. Her mind was racing, trying to work out if this was some sort of sick, cosmic joke, or if perhaps there was dark magic at play. Her lips parted, a spell hovering on the tip of her tongue, just as Fred spoke. 

“You’re asleep, ‘Mione. But I’m… Here, I suppose, in a lot of ways.” Fred said, slipping his hands into his pockets with a small shrug. 

“I’m dreaming,” Hermione said flatly, collapsing onto the edge of the bed as she tried to calm her rapidly thudding heart. Her wand rolled out of her limp grip and onto the mattress beside her.

Fred--dream-Fred--shifted uncomfortably, and Hermione felt a stab of pain at the familiarity of the simple motion. “You’re not dreaming, at least not in the sense that you’re making this all up and I’m some silly figment of your imagination.”

“You didn’t--? Frederick Weasley, your mum would be heartbroken, how could you even consider coming back as a ghost--” Hermione was surprised at the bitter flare of anger that erupted from within her; to feel any emotion so strongly seemed like a strange sort of victory. 

Fred sat down on the edge of the pale purple quilt, once more taking Hermione’s breath away. She reached out hesitantly, the fire in her stomach cooling. Still not entirely convinced that she wasn’t asleep, she stroked Fred’s pale skin. It was all the same. The trio of freckles dotting his first knuckle, the rough calluses lining his palm, it was all Fred.

“Not a ghost, Hermione.” Fred grinned suddenly, and for a moment it was that summer at Grimmauld Place, and they were sat around a fire, Fred prodding at Hermione and her rolling her eyes in turn. 

Hermione blinked, clearing the precious memory from her mind. That had been two years ago, and to dwell on it now would only cause her more pain when she woke up from this cruel dream. Fred spoke again, and if he noticed Hermione disappear to that summer of two years previously, he didn’t comment on it. 

“You’ve got to admit, the afterlife suits me. My skin has never looked more lovely, yeah?” Fred turned his face to the side, striking a ridiculous pose, and it took Hermione a few moments to realize that she was crying. “What is it, ‘Mione?” Fred said, all traces of humor gone as he tenderly placed his hand atop hers.

“Just… If this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up,” Hermione whispered, her voice breaking on the last words. “How are you here? Why?”

“Er, that. Well, my dearest Miss Granger, I’m here because I know you, and because I know you, I’m absolutely sure that you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering about the “ifs” and “buts” of what could have been, if that little unfortunate incident with the wall hadn’t happened-- Now, Hermione, perk up, because neither of us’ll be able to make it through if we can’t make jokes.” Fred paused, quirking a brow at Hermione. 

Her tears fell more rapidly still, but Hermione nodded quickly, trying--and failing--to smile. Fred seemed to accept her grimace as progress, and so he continued. “The details are fuzzy on the how, I’ll admit, but why? I can show you. You’ve been thinking about who we could have been, haven’t you? Whether or not you’d end up with a certain ginger-in-shining armour?”

In spite of how ridiculous this all was, and even in the face of the fact that she was most positively hallucinating this entire exchange, Hermione found herself blushing. “I… We never even got that far with it, Fred. Not since everything went to hell in a handbasket.”

“I like to think of it as more of a large trunk than a handbasket, but I digress. I can tell you though, Granger, that I was--and still am--completely, madly in love with you.” Fred curled his fingers around Hermione’s, drawing her hand to his chest.

“We’re skipping right over like, then?” Hermione managed to find her humor, even if it was only to please Fred. He grinned at her, and that look alone propelled her forward. “And I love you, Fred Weasley, even though…”

Hermione’s unspoken words hung heavy in the air.  _ Even though it’s too late. Even though we’ll never have our story told in history books. Even though this is all we'll ever be.  _ It was perhaps the bitterest love of all, stained with blood and bits of debris, wrapped like a thick cord around the neck of the living.

“Yeah. Even though.” Fred’s eyes, though still bright, had lost but the slightest trace of his warm humor. “If we’d made it to that afternoon on the lake, I would’ve told you. How I’ve been mad for you for years and couldn’t tell you because I knew, somehow, that we’d always end like this. How at the wedding, I wanted to dance with you because just once, I wanted to know what it would’ve been like if we had all the time in the world.” 

“Fred…” Hermione’s voice broke. “I knew. Ever since that summer at Grimmauld Place, I knew. You never had to tell me anything.”

Fred cleared his throat, face suddenly grave. “I can show you it all, if you want. But if I do, you have to promise me something, Hermione.”

Hermione, finding her voice and perhaps a bit of strength, squeezed Fred’s hand. “Anything, Fred, absolutely anything. You know that.”

Fred stared at her, an unfathomable expression on his face, and Hermione wanted to sob again as she marveled at the beauty of his blue eyes, impossibly gazing upon her again. “I want you to promise me that after you see what our lives would’ve been, that you’ll move on. You won’t mope around this house and flinch at every thump and thud. You’ve got to live and become the Headmistress of Hogwarts of the Minister for Magic or whatever the hell other impossibly grand thing you want to be. So what do you say, Granger? Can you?”

And of course she would, because even when he was at his most obnoxious, pulling pranks on innocent second years at Hogwarts, Hermione had never been able to say no to Fred. In fact, it was only once that she threatened to write his mum about his actions, but even then Hermione was quietly in awe of his talent. And so, resolving herself to accept the pain of being shown an alternate path she couldn’t take, if only to spend a few more moments with Fred, Hermione stood. 

“I promise you, Fred.”

“Follow me.” Fred strode ahead of Hermione towards the north wall of Ginny’s bedroom, and she was about to make a sarcastic comment about him walking through walls when she gasped aloud. 

They were standing on the rolling green hills that surrounded Hogwarts, though they weren’t so green in the aftermath of the battle. Charred patches of dirt littered the ground at the pair’s feet, and the distinct scent of burnt wood hung thickly in the air. The landscape, though, remained unchanged. To her left, Hermione spotted the rubbled remains of the courtyard, and was startled to see many people milling about, some kicking at the stones and others murmuring quietly to each other. She spotted a familiar head of pale blonde hair, and had raised her arm to wave to Luna when Fred began chuckling. 

“They can’t see us, Granger. This is, as I think your Muggle fiction-science-alien books would call it, an alternate universe? We’re just outsiders looking in. Sort of like a pensieve. Oh, look, I think you’ll recognize that dashing young man over there. And the girl he’s with isn’t too shabby either.” Fred pointed somewhere off to Hermione’s right, and it was then that she saw herself and Fred, both covered in dirt and dried blood, but alive, walking by the lake’s edge. 

“You know, someone needs to put a cap on that enormous ego of yours, Weasley,” Hermione murmured, eyes fixed on the retreating forms of the other versions of herself and Fred. They were too far away for Hermione to hear what they were saying. She started forward, entranced by the mirage before her and hungry for a taste of this world. Fred grabbed for her arm before she could get too far away, though, and tugged her back to his side. 

“I’ve already tried that. I don’t know why, but this is the one event that I can’t hear what they--we--are saying. If I had to guess, though, you’re being your typical bloody brilliant self, laying out your feelings in a pragmatic way, and when you begin to overthink things, I--” Fred stopped as other-Fred kissed his Hermione, drawing her close to his chest as she reached on to her toes to wrap her arms around his neck. 

“You were right,” Hermione whispered, smiling slightly as she took in the scene. This time, the tears didn’t come. “I had it all planned out. I was going to ask you to walk down to the lake with me; I had even been drafting a speech,” She turned to Fred and smacked his shoulder lightly, causing him to let out an exaggerated yelp. “And of course you, Fred Weasley, couldn’t wait two minutes for me to get through it. Typical.”

For the first time in too long, Hermione laughed, and the act alone seemed to lift a weight off of her chest. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so light, so free. Fred was smiling down at her, and it was only when she looked back at the other versions of themselves that the smile slid right off her face, and her laughter died in her chest. None of this was real, and Fred was still dead, and no amount of daydreaming would bring him back to life. 

“It’s still hard,” Hermione whispered, slowly leaning until her head was resting against Fred’s shoulder. “This dream… I guess I should be quite proud of my imagination, conjuring this all up. You even smell the same.”

Fred turned so that Hermione was forced to meet his gaze. He brushed his hand along the edge of her jaw, her collarbone, stopping just at the nape of her neck. “This isn’t a dream, ‘Mione. I don’t know what to call it, but just because it’s happening inside your mind, doesn’t mean it’s not real. Now, we could mope and cry and stare pitifully at these other-us’s, or we could make the most of it and pretend, just for a little bit, that this is the life we got to live together.”

Hermione grinned, unable to fight off Fred’s infectious light. It was almost tangible, settling over her bones like a warm, golden second skin. “I like the second option.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” and with that, Fred leaned down, and the scene at the edge of the lake was totally and completely forgotten as he pressed his lips to Hermione’s. And it was strange, how in this small space hovering precariously between life and death, that a moment such as this could exist. 

The kiss was beautiful and sweet and slow, everything she could have ever possibly hoped it would be. He tasted like a combination of a cool summer’s evening and fresh mint, more intoxicating than even the strongest firewhisky. Fred’s arms slid down to rest at her waist, and she, mimicking the actions of her other self, wrapped her arms around his neck as tightly as she could, as if by holding him to her she could take away the injuries that wall had inflicted upon him, as if she could undo the past week of her life to that moment before everything changed. The kiss turned more frantic, and Hermione’s lips parted against Fred’s, but just as his tongue swiped across her bottom lip the scene started to go blurry at the edges, the trees at the base of the forest slowly fading into grey and the whispers in the courtyard disappearing entirely. Fred’s fingertips dug so deeply into her hips that it hurt, but she didn’t want to let go, even as she felt the solidness of his chest beneath her hands lose its shape. She opened her eyes to see the four walls of Ginny’s bedroom, the makeshift Quidditch pitch in the garden outside, her pile of belongings strewn across the corner and beneath her bed. 

And Fred was gone. Hermione looked down in disbelief at her hands, which had just seconds ago been resting against the hard planes of Fred’s chest. She could recall exactly the shade of blue of his sweater, the texture of his lips against hers. Could it have been a dream? Even posing the question felt ridiculous. Of course she’d imagined it. Perhaps the war had inflicted deeper scars on her than she’d realized, perhaps she’d gone mad somewhere in the middle of it all. 

And maybe she was a masochist, wishing for that madness, hoping against hope that the next time she laid down her head Fred would visit her again. Hermione pressed two shaking fingers to her lips, smiling the first smile in her waking hours since the universe had come crashing down at her feet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! I actually have this story entirely written (productivity? I've just met her) and so instead of waiting a week to post another chapter I decided to go ahead and post it now! I hope you enjoy getting more into the thick of things, and please leave a comment and kudos if you liked it!  
x Sarah


	3. pt. iii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _when you’re high, i’ll take the lows / you can ebb and i can flow (ben platt, “grow as we go”)___

Hermione didn’t see Fred again for three weeks. She hadn’t told a soul of her strange experience that day, deciding that if she were truly mad, she’d rather keep that knowledge to herself for the time being. What would she tell them, anyway? That she had laughed with Fred and blushed at his ridiculous comments, that they’d teased and poked and prodded? It was strange, Hermione had come to realize, what you do when you’re faced with the thing you never thought you’d have again, how you wish nothing more than to reclaim that sense of normalcy, to act as if nothing had changed when it so clearly had. 

And so she carried on, taking silent walks around the garden with Ron and letting Mrs. Weasley teach her how to knit, though she had no aptitude for the task, and doing so purely to give the older woman something to occupy her thoughts with. Life continued on at its melancholy pace, and it was only the increasingly withdrawn George that gave her any pause at all. 

Several times now, Hermione had passed by his room to hear him quietly speaking, though it would abruptly cut off when she got close enough to press her ear against the door. Feeling ashamed and just a touch embarrassed, she would hurry down the hall, but still she wondered if she wasn’t the only one Fred had visited. 

It was in the third week--a full month since the battle--that Hermione began to doubt the validity of her dream. Maybe it had been a hallucination, brought on by lack of sleep and a broken heart. Somehow, though, the days were made easier, knowing that when she went to sleep that night she might be able to see Fred again. Night after night, though, she was disappointed. Sometimes she would awake and catch a glimmer of red hair or the flash of a smile in the darkness, but it would be gone before her eyes could fully adjust in the lack of light. 

Madness, or hope, or perhaps a deadly combination of the two kept Hermione from falling into a pit of despair The part of her mind that was still definite hope--something she thought had been totally lost in the war--kept whispering to her that he would come back. It was on the fourth night of the week that she lay in her bed, waiting for another night of fitful sleep to take her as its prisoner, Fred appeared.

He was still in the same soft, blue sweater, his hair casually mussed and eyes bright. Before Hermione’s mind caught up with her body, she was launching herself at him, and Fred caught her in his arms, holding her briefly before setting her back onto the ground. No words were spoken between the two until their surroundings shifted, and the exterior of the Burrow took shape. 

This Burrow was different, though, then the one she’d just vacated. There appeared to be several extensions on the back, adding to the already mismatched and towering form of the building. A toy broomstick was leaned against the entryway, and further into the yard a massive white tent was towering over the trees, draped in garlands of curling vines and dripping succulents. Several gossamer ribbons swayed gently in the light breeze, and as Hermione watched, two forms that appeared to be Bill and Charlie emerged from the tent, clad in matching emerald green tuxedos. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” Fred murmured, tugging at the end of Hermione’s messily braided hair teasingly while his other hand cupped her cheek. She started, having been entranced by the unfamiliar version of the place that was as good as her home. “I always loved you like this. Frizzy hair, pajamas. How’s it that you’re so lovely all the time?”

Hermione smiled gently, turning her face into his hand. “Always a charmer, aren’t you? And it’s hard work, you know. Perhaps I could give you some pointers?”

“I might just have to take you up on that,” Fred said, and gently turned Hermione so that she was facing the front of the Burrow. “This is where we start. This time, we’ll be able to hear what we’re saying.”

Hermione resisted, though, addressing Fred once more, all traces of humor gone from her face. “Will we have time when whatever this is is over? Before you disappear again?” 

“I think we will, at least a few minutes. I will stay with you, ‘Mione, as long as whatever the hell is keeping me here allows. I won’t leave you,” Fred murmured gently, and this time Hermione did not resist as he directed her attention back to the Burrow. “To truly  _ see _ it, you have to become it. Close your eyes and pretend like you’re melting into the grass, the trees, even the garden gnomes.”

Hermione snorted delicately. “Fred Weasley, please never ask me to become your garden gnomes ever again.” 

Fred chuckled and pinched her side lightly. “Apologies, Miss Granger.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his tone was more strained. “This is our wedding. Three years after the war. Mum gives me my grandmum’s ring two months after the battle, and I carry it around in my pocket and propose to you so often it becomes a running joke in the family. It takes me two to convince you to marry me, and another year for you to decide to actually go through with it.”

Hermione simply nodded, processing Fred’s words, and closed her eyes, focusing on allowing her senses to morph with nature, settling into the tall, waving grass and gnarled trunks of the trees. Just as she was about to give up and chastise Fred for tricking her, it happened. One moment, she was within her nineteen year old body, standing on the outskirts of the Burrow’s perimeter, and in the next, she was gone. 

***

The light, perfumed smell of gardenias wafted through the air even in the bedroom, seeping in through the cracks in the mismatched boards lining the walls and the ancient windows. Hermione breathed in deeply and her eyes shuttered closed, a small smile alighting her lips--painted a pale pink by Ginny--as the flowery scent invaded her senses.

“Hermione, dear, Molly wants to know if you have an opinion on the arrangement of the standing bouquets. Do you want them lining the aisle, or up against the sides of the tent?” Jean Granger tenderly brushed a lock of curled hair behind Hermione’s ear, careful not to muss the garland of live lilies adorning her head. 

“Honestly, Mum, I’m not fussed either way. Tell her to do whatever she’d like with them. I’m sure Fred won’t mind either.” Hermione smiled up at her mother, thanking the Gods that she’d been able to find her parents after the war and return them to her life. The thought of having a wedding without her father and mother present sent a pang through Hermione’s chest, but she pushed it away. Today she was only embracing joy. 

“Did I just hear  _ the  _ Hermione Granger say that she didn’t care about something? Has the earth stopped turning? Has Hell frozen over?” Hermione whirled around in her chair to see the exaggerated shock on her fiance’s face as he leaned in the doorway, looking impossibly taller in a cut navy blue tuxedo. She smiled in spite of herself at the mere sight of him. 

They’d come so far from those two scared teenagers, stealing glances across the room, hands brushing on the most terrifying night of their lives. And now Fred was to be her husband, and she his wife, and that thought alone made all of the darkness she’d endured in her life worth every moment of it. 

“Frederick Gideon Weasley!” Ginny hissed, rising menacingly from her place on the bed where she had been perched, playing with baby Victoire. Hermione jumped, blushing as she realized she’d been staring--it was a wonder she wasn’t drooling, really--at Fred for far too long. “Don’t you know it’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding?” 

Ginny began advancing on Fred, looking all too much like her mother. This alone had Hermione laughing, and she rose, drawing her pale gold satin robe more tightly around her body. “It’s alright, Gin, I’m not even dressed yet.” She gestured to the garment bag hanging on the curtain rod. 

“I’d wager we’ve been through enough that the Gods have taken some pity on us and thrown out that whole curse business, anyway,” Fred grinned, and Hermione didn’t miss the way his eyes lingered on her slim legs, tanned a light bronze underneath the short robe. “In fact, I’d like Merlin himself to come down from the sky and smite me if he--”

“--Now, I’m sure dear Hermione wouldn’t appreciate you being smited just an hour before her big day. Imagine the mess you’d leave behind!” George shook his head in mock-horror, throwing a wink in Hermione’s direction before clapping his twin brother on the shoulder. “C’mon now, Freddy, or else Mum’ll have both of our heads-- er, and Gin might beat her to it.” George took one look at his sister’s downright murderous expression and began trying to drag Fred down the hall. 

“Hold on a bloody second,” Fred yelped, wrenching his arm free of George and holding out a hand to Hermione. “I wanted to talk to you about something… Privately.” He shot a pointed look at Ginny, and it was only after the younger girl saw Hermione’s nod that she gathered two year old Victoire in her arms and left the room, muttering all the way about the men in her life and their untimely interruptions, George following closely behind her.

Hermione reached around Fred to shut the door before gingerly perching on the edge of her bed, mindful not to muss the artful crown of flowers in her hair that Fleur had spent two hours carefully crafting. “Can I help you with something, Mr. Weasley? Or have you come just purely to cause trouble?”

Fred flopped down much less delicately on the bed than Hermione had, lying with his head on his hand so that he was facing her. “Excuse me, Miss, I was simply passing by on my way to the loo--purely happenstance, of course--and heard one Hermione Granger insist that she didn’t care about a decision being made for this wedding, which, I might add, she has been planning meticulously for the last five months. Any rational bloke would wonder if someone might be coming down with a case of cold feet.” 

Hermione mirrored Fred’s pose, though she propped her chin on her fist in order to protect Fleur’s artistry. “Three years ago I didn’t think that I’d be alive, much less preparing to marry the man I love. I’m so happy right here, right now that I don’t care about the flowers, or the tablecloths, or whether or not Charlie insists on wearing an enormous dragon broach on his lapel. This is absolutely everything I could have wished for.”

“Though I wholeheartedly support all of Charlie’s broach endeavors, I know what you mean. Today, you, it’s all bloody perfect.” Hermione was startled to see that Fred’s eyes were shining brightly, tears welling. 

“Fred, what’s wrong?” Instinctively, though it had been three years since the war had ended, three years since she’d needed to be prepared to save a loved one’s life at a moment’s notice, Hermione gave Fred a once-over. Having deemed him to be of perfectly sound mind and body, she reached for his hand. “This isn’t you hedging about your own chilly feet, is it?” She asked hesitantly. 

Fred immediately leapt to his feet, running a hand through his ginger hair. “Merlin, no, Hermione! I didn’t start proposing to you two years ago just to cop out at the last bloody moment,” and the pair laughed, recalling the numerous, strange proposals Fred had bombarded Hermione with until she’d said yes one evening sat on his hideously teal sofa, drinking tea and indulging in Fred’s greatest love, Muggle Chinese takeout. “I just wanted to thank you for all of this.” He gestured to her and to the window, the tent outside was just barely visible over the trees. 

Hermione furrowed her brow, not understanding the turn in conversation. “What do you possibly have to thank me for-- Oh,” Then, it dawned on her. She remembered the night it happened, her blood pounding in her veins as the wall had been blasted apart, and some instinct drove her to shove Fred just a few feet away. If he’d been any closer, he might have died. “I’ve told you before, you don’t have anything to thank me for. I love you, and I would have done it for anyone else I loved, too.”

Fred brought Hermione’s hand to his lips and kissed it gently. She shivered, wishing her lipstick hadn’t already been applied, and that Ginny wouldn’t kill her for smudging it. “Hermione, darling, I owe it all to you. It could have been me buried in the rubble, and not Thicknesse. You saved my life, and after the war ended, you helped me live it. Before we’re surrounded by the madness and our weeping mums, and Charlie’s garish broach, I wanted to make sure you knew.”

Hermione blinked back tears of her own and gave Fred a watery smile. “Who would have thought we’d be here, all those years ago? The bossy know-it-all and the obnoxious jokester--”

“--I prefer dashingly handsome jokester, but continue--”

“--I didn’t see my story turning out this way in those days, you know. It wasn’t until I turned sixteen and truly realized how brilliant you were and how marvelous love could be that I saw it. This. There’s no better beginning to my story than this one.” And Hermione didn’t have a moment to warn Fred about the imminent threat of his sister before his lips were on hers, and she forgot why she’d even been worried about it to begin with. 

The door banged open. “Percy wanted me to tell you that your dad’s cried approximately six and a half times and there’s only so many handkerchiefs he can conjure up and-- Fred Weasley! You’re lucky I let Teddy play with my wand, or else I’d hex the life out of you!” Ginny marched into the room, and the scene would have been downright terrifying if it weren’t for the two year old she had perched on her hip, gurgling happily and tugging on a strand of Ginny’s ginger tresses. 

“Yes ma’am, Mrs. Potter!” Fred jumped to his feet and imitated a salute before ruffling his younger sister’s hair affectionately. “I’ll see you three lovely ladies in a bit. Save a dance for me, won’t you Vic?” Fred leaned down to peck the toddler’s cheek. 

Hermione laughed, checking to make sure her makeup was, in fact, intact before scooping Victoire into her arms, smoothing the toddler’s blonde curls. She didn’t miss the way Ginny’s bottom lip jutted out slightly at this, and she silently wondered how long it would be before Mr. and Mrs. Potter welcomed a child of their own. Saving that particular route of teasing for a later date, Hermione ushered Fred out of the room with her free hand, playfully smacking his arm as he walked by her. 

“You’ll see me in approximately fifty seven minutes, Mr. Weasley,” Hermione brushed her lips across her soon-to-be husband’s cheek. “Surely you can wait that long.”

“That might just be the most difficult thing that’s ever been asked of me, Ms. Granger,” Fred playfully tweaked Victoire’s nose, eliciting a burst of musical laughter from the child. “And if you recall, I am a war hero, so that’s saying something--”

“--Alright, out!” Ginny said, slamming the door before Fred could utter another word. She turned to Hermione, shaking her head and grinning. “You know you have to live with him for the rest of your life, right?”

The rest of her life. The thought of that, a future stretched long before her, where she and Fred would have all the time in the world to explore the world and grow old together sent a warmth through Hermione’s body that seemed to seep into her bones. Just three years ago, the idea of a future seemed impossible, and she lived a day at a time, unsure if she’d see the next sunrise. But now… The possibilities were endless. Infinite. And if she were to ever forget it, the weight of the simple gold band inlaid with three diamonds that rested on her left ring finger would be a comforting reminder of all she had. 

“Strangely enough, Gin, I don’t think forever with Fred Weasley sounds bad at all.” Hermione’s gaze drifted from her almost-sister-in-law to the happy baby on her hip, named for the victory that brought her to her fiance, and for the first time, she truly felt as if the world had been righted. Indeed, a future with Fred at her side would be nothing short of brilliant. 

***

Hermione gasped, and the feeling of being wrenched back into her body--not dissimilar from Apparating for the first time--sent a shock wave through her system. She collapsed onto the soft grass outside the Burrow, distantly registering the loud cheers coming from the tent. Then, there was a gentle hand at her shoulder, rubbing slow circles while she tried to catch her breath 

and slow her heart rate. Hermione’s entire body was shaking, and whether it was from the rush of seemingly falling through realities or the aching longing that filled every crevice of her heart, she couldn’t say. 

“It’s a bit startling the first time,” Fred said sympathetically, and Hermione would have chuckled at the obviousness of the statement had it not been for the gravity of the situation. 

She remembered the weight of her engagement ring on her finger as if it still rested there, and the way Victoire’s bright blue eyes, the spitting image of her mother, had tracked her every move. It had all felt so real, so right, and the heaviness that had been resting on her heart for so long now was just… Gone. The scars had still been there, ever-present reminders of all she had faced and lost, but it didn’t suffocate her. The pain, the grief, it had been bearable. 

But now, the facade of a pretty wedding day that had been clouding her vision like a thick fog had been wiped away, and that old weight settled once more into her chest. 

“I still don’t understand how all of this works,” instead of trying to put into words how she was feeling, Hermione stuck to what she knew best-- logic, reasoning. Things that made sense. “How can you even be showing me these things? How are you… Present?” 

Ever since Fred first appeared to her, in that dream or vision or whatever the hell it was, she’d been fighting back her lingering questions. A part of Hermione’s brain was screaming at her to take it for what it was, to hell with reason and sanity. But it wasn’t in her nature to leave a stone unturned, to accept something so extraordinary without exploring it from every angle. 

Fred shifted, and it became imminently clear that he was facing the same issue. “I can’t explain it. It started as a feeling, and I just knew that you and George needed me, needed a resolution, and I s’pose that’s how it began--”

Hermione was unable to resist cutting in at this revelation. “George? Have you been visiting him as well?” 

At this, Fred’s mouth quirked up at the corner. “Ten points to Gryffindor, Miss Granger,” and at this, Hermione smiled, and Fred seemed quite proud of himself. “But yeah, I have. You’re quite similar, scarily enough. George would never be able to live without answers, without knowing for sure what path we would have taken together.”

Fred took a deep breath, and for the first time Hermione saw the beginnings of the cracks in his bravado. It was one thing to speak of his own death so plainly, but to discuss George was something else entirely. His twin, his best friend, was now operating solo in a world he’d only ever known as one half of a pair. 

Hermione spoke again, gently steering the conversation away from George and back to safer ground. “As hard as it is to wrap my brain around, I understand… I think. It’s as comforting as it’s devastating, in a way, to know that a universe exists where our stories intertwined.” 

Fred clasped Hermione’s hands between his own, settling down on the ground before her so that they were knee-to-knee. “And the beauty of it all is now, you get to write your own story. You shine brilliantly, and there’s a whole world out there in front of you, Hermione Granger, and it’s up to you to decide how you use your light.”

This time, Hermione felt the scene shift before she saw it. The sounds were the first to go--the chattering of voices down by the tent, the distant croaking of frogs and lazy hum of bees. She was prepared for the feeling of Fred’s fingers slipping out of her own, but it didn’t mean she didn’t try to hang on for just a moment, once more imagining her heart as a string, tethering her to earth while Fred floated amongst the clouds. 

When she awoke back in her four poster bed, dawn was just breaking, and beams of orange and pink hued light filtered in through the slats in the window coverings. And for the first time since the war ended, Hermione didn’t dread the sunrise. 

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2 will be up exactly a week from today! I hope you love this take on Hermione and Fred, and what could have been. We'll be delving into the *real* plot in the next chapter, and I can promise alllll the angst and Fremione feels!  
Please leave some kudos and a comment if you enjoyed it!


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